A Change of View
by Kame Hime
Summary: An unexpected alliance forges new bonds as Harry and Draco's careers take off. Post DH, not epilogue compliant. HPDM, but Harry/Ginny and Draco/Astoria in the beginning.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own its characters and its universe. Those belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just here to alter and mold them however I see fit.

Warning: This will be a _slash_, meaning this will contain a male-male relationship. Those uncomfortable with this idea will be better off not reading further.

* * *

He crouched in the rolling fog, his breathing heavy as his eyes scoured his surroundings, intently searching. Dark hair hung in his face, tickling his nose, but it would be detrimental if he were to scratch it now; his wand hand hung mangled and useless at his side, his left awkwardly clutching his holly wand. Scurrying sounded behind him; he wheeled around and narrowed his eyes into slits, vainly trying to peer through the thick fog.

"Come, Potter!" A raspy voice called through the mist. "Come and retrieve what you seek! Or are you too much of a coward without reinforcements here to protect you?"

"I'm no more of a coward than you are, Greyback!" Harry shouted as his wand slipped toward the ground in his sweaty grip. "Why don't you stop hiding in this fog and finish me off!"

A growl reverberated through the vapor, echoing and making it impossible to discern where it had come from, and a red jet fired at Harry's front, forcing him to dive to avoid the blast. _"Expelliarmus_!" he shouted from the ground, blindly aiming upward at where he guessed Fenrir Greyback to be. A yelp sounded and a wand landed inches from his left ear. Struggling to his feet and cursing his right hand as he cradled it to his body, he stood protectively over his newly acquired wand, not wanting to risk picking it up. _If only I had listened to Hermionie, _Harry thought. _Things wouldn't have gotten this far out of hand and Greyback would have been subdued a long time ago._

A large figure leapt at Harry, seemingly out of nowhere. He fumbled with his wand, casting a shield charm just in time, only able to see a glimpse of yellowed teeth set in a hairy, gray face before Greyback bounded into the invisible barrier and was thrown aside, once again obscured from view. Harry chased toward the location, wand poised, but was suddenly tackled from the right and thrown to the hard concrete once more.

Searing pain shot down Harry's arm and through his skull as his vision swam, momentarily paralyzing him. Sluggishly regaining his senses as he struggled against the vicious weight atop of him, he was able to position his body so that his legs were beneath the werewolf. It wasn't until he kicked the putrid body off of him that he realized, with a jolt, the reason for the pain in his arm; the werewolf had, snarling, bitten into his already damaged wand arm, tearing into the muscle and ripping off a portion as he was thrown from Harry's body.

Flying upright nearly as fast as Greyback flew through the air, Harry cast a stunning spell and conjured ropes, snaking themselves tightly around the motionless body once the werewolf landed. Conjuring a piece of bark, he set it beside Greyback and set it aflame, searched for the other's wand, and returned, apparating the two of them to the Ministry of Magic and leaving a large trail of blood in his wake.

* * *

"I'm getting rid of my glasses," Harry said forcefully. Ron raised scarlet eyebrows over his pumpkin juice.

"Why the sudden cave-in, mate? Hermione's been trying to force you to get rid of them for _months_."

"Because they landed me _here_," Harry spit, thrusting his left arm around the room. The walls were white and spotless and light, white curtains framed barred windows. The sun filtered into the room, blindingly glaring off the walls, floor, and everything else occupying the space.

He shifted himself higher up the bed, his back propped up and his head sagging against pristine, white pillows. "And Oliana," he continued, trailing off, "She was a brilliant Auror, Ron, and wouldn't have been killed if I had been able to see."

"That's rubbish, Harry, and you know it!" a female's voice reprimanded. Hermione walked through the doorway, holding a tray of food and the day's edition of the _Daily Prophet. _Seeing Harry was about to retort, she continued."Being an Auror is a dangerous job and even the most skilled members can be caught unawares."

"But if I had been able to _see_—"

"You yourself said the fog was nearly impenetrable, Harry, and I'm sure it would have been the same way whether your glasses were fogged up or not. _She _certainly couldn't see, either, and her eyesight was flawless!"

"Yeah, but—"

"_No_, Ron! You know full well this is for Harry! You've already eaten up last night's dinner. Don't eat up his breakfast, too." Hermione scolded, slapping Ron's hand away from the tray she had just set on Harry's lap.

"Just be glad you've finally caught Greyback, Harry. That monster's done enough damage for a couple lifetimes," Ron added solemnly, looking back toward his friend confined to the bed.

All three bowed their heads silently, thinking of Lupin and wishing he were alive to see the monster that ruined his life finally put to justice.

"So, what's the verdict?" Harry inquired to Hermione, breaking the silence and shakily raising a spoonful of steaming porridge to his mouth. She sat in a chair beside Ron's, her eyes scanning the _Prophet_ for information on Greyback's trial.

"I'm sorry, but it seems your curiosity will have to linger, Mr. Potter," a clipped voice sounded from the left. In the doorway stood a blond woman with Mediwitch robes, going over the clipboard found on Harry's door. "You're not supposed to exert yourself, and I'm afraid learning the results of werewolf trials fall under that category."

"Whab?" Harry replied incredulously, his tongue scalded from the oatmeal.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Here at St. Mungo's, we pride ourselves in our ability to help our patients heal quickly and completely, and it's difficult to do that when our patients are constantly in an overexcited state." She looked accusingly towards Hermione and Ron. The latter replied with bits of stolen toast filling his mouth, "I don' 'ee the probwum wit' us visiting our friend," he finished, swallowing. Hermione remained behind the _Daily Prophet_, obscured from view.

"The _problem_," she replied scathingly, scribbling with her quill, "is that it's nearly impossible to regrow muscle when the patient _won't lie down_," she punctuated with a glare toward Harry, "let alone tendon. Your hand was severely injured with a curse, Mr. Potter, and trying to heal Dark Magic is extremely difficult. Quite honestly, I believe you'll be required to participate in physical therapy—_yes_, sometimes wizards require this, too—just to regain half your previous mobility." She dangled the clipboard by her side, staring at Harry now that she was done filing the day's report. "I'd be happy he wasn't in a transformed state when he bit you. There's worse things than a bit of scarring and minute loss of muscle movement."

With a huff, she turned back around and dropped the clipboard back into its holder, back rigid and slamming the door on her way out. With a rustle, Hermione revealed herself from behind the _Prophet_ and smushed it into her lap. "There's worse things than being an insensitive, unlikeable bitch," she spit heatedly, scowling at the door.

"Well said," Ron replied before popping three strawberries into his mouth.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, well, I got bored of Inuyasha and things aren't turning out the way I want them to, so here's this. Don't worry..Draco appears in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not owning Harry Potter or anything related. Well, except this.  


* * *

"What the fuck happened back there, Malfoy?"

Harry whirled around, his eyes wide and his face distorted in rage. They sat in his office at the Ministry on level two, away from the other Aurors' cubicles. Wanted posters were pinned on every wall surface, they're occupants smiling, sneering, and winking at the two men. Draco's eyes kept flicking to the black marks littering the majority of posters. There were two desks.

"I was under the impression your partner died in a werewolf hunt, Potter," he drawled

A pink paper airplane flew in through the gap at the top of the door, zooming soundlessly. Before it could even reach him, Harry cried, "_Incendio_!" Flames shot out of his wand, zooming over Draco's right ear and obliterating the poor memo; the force of the spell scorched the door, and the posters on it, with a large, black burn. Draco paled.

"I'll ask you again, Malfoy," Harry said, his tone low and dangerous as he leaned over his desk, still for the first time. "Why was there an _ambush_ waiting for my partner and I? There was only supposed to be _one_ werewolf at that glade—Greyback!"

"I—I really don't know, Potter." At Harry's incredulous stare, he continued, "Really! My job is to research multiple magical beings: their traits, their habits, their hideaways, and everything else! And to write my findings in bloody_ books_! You're the one who asked for my hel—"

"Shacklebolt asked for your help," Harry cut in, a look of distaste on his face. "He figured your knowledge to be 'valuable and an asset to our search'."

"If you don't like me so much, Potter, then why don't you request my transfer to another Auror? Or, better yet, discontinue my help altogether and let me get some bloody work done!" Draco's eyes were hardened steel and his snow white hands clutched the arms of the chair so tightly they trembled.

"_Because_," Harry dragged on, "you're _my_ responsibility. I'm the one who spoke up on your behalf—the reason you're allowed to have a job in the first place!" His whole being suddenly seemed to melt, his face devoid of all emotion as he looked at a picture frame on his desk. "Shacklebolt was an integral part of the Order of the Phoenix—you know that, Malfoy—so you can understand his hesitancy when it comes to forgiving Death Eaters," Harry's robotic gaze fell to Draco, "and anyone who helped Voldemort."

Draco gave an involuntary shudder, but never took his eyes off Harry's. "There's no forgiveness, Potter, and there never will be. The Malfoys are _destroyed_," His face when he spoke his family name was as though he ate a disease-infested flobberworm, "My isolated mother is under house arrest for two more years, my father remains rotting in Azkaban, and I can't walk through Diagon Alley with Astoria without scowls and muttered curses. The only place I'm free is when I'm away from _here_—away from the Ministry and away from the rest of Wizarding Britain—and speaking with v-vampires in Romania or tracking yeti in—in Tibet." He began to falter as Harry's gaze once again became more human.

Without warning, Harry threw himself into his chair and propped his feet up onto his desk, kicking a stack of folders off his desk and onto the floor. "I understand how difficult it is to be stared at with disdain," he began, his fingers laced behind his head, "but you can't let it overwhelm you. People will believe what they want to believe, and it's usually as far away from the truth as it can get. Don't give them the opportunity to make their rumor true. The faster you help me complete my job, the faster you can get back to yours and away from all this."

"I told you where Greyback was sighted."

"This is bigger than Greyback." He let his legs down and opened a drawer from his desk, pulling out a file and closing it behind him. He threw the manila folder across the desk to Malfoy and began summarizing the details. "There's been werewolf sightings across the continent. Disappearances have reached record numbers since the fall of Voldemort. We can put two and two together," he paused at a snort from behind the file, then continued, "and we believe the werewolf sightings and the disappearances to be linked. Our first thought was another Death Eater revival and I," he glanced briefly to the spotless empty desk, "and Oliana investigated further. What do you think we found, Malfoy?"

There was a heavy silence while Harry waited, his tightly wrapped hand lying on the desk between them and his whole, healthy hand resting on his stomach. After a few moments, Draco finally lowered the folder and placed it onto the cluttered surface, his eyes automatically finding the mangled hand before him. He stared, his breathing shallow as sweat coated his upper lip until, finally, he spoke in a strong voice, his gaze boring straight into Harry's.

"What's it like having to compensate for a loss, Potter?"

"Get _out_!" Harry's face was unrecognizable once more as he threw the picture frame at Draco, moving at a speed only gained through training. Draco had flown to the floor, scrambling to the door as fast as possible, narrowly escaping the objects thrown in his direction. He reached the door and slipped to safety, but he remained poised outside Harry's office, staring at the wall opposite, the only thought reaching his frenzied mind: _Potter's only mask besides blank, robotic indifference is one of exploding fury_.

* * *

A/N: The plot thickens in another relatively short chapter. Eh, that just means faster updates (let's hope). Glad you read, hope you review! :D


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter—it made J.K. Rowling rich, so I'm going to assume she owns it.

Note: Since this takes place in Britain, I'm going to be using British jargon. To my knowledge, cigarettes are also called fags there, so don't get all offended. My best friend's gay and I'm not a gay-basher, so don't flame me for it. If it's really too much of an issue, it'll be changed, but the word comes up, like, _once_. I like calling cigs cigs, but hey, whatever. When in Rome (or writing about it)…

* * *

The sun shone dazzlingly bright in the sky, the first clear day of the month. Birds sang, insects buzzed, and Harry Potter persistently cursed the nice weather under his breath. He sat slouched in a black foldout chair. Rows of the same uncomfortable chairs stretched behind him with the same black rectangular setup to his right. Aurors shifted about in most of them, but friends of the deceased fidgeted in the remaining seats. A raised wooden casket sat ten feet before Harry, reflecting sunlight off its polished surface. Low voices buzzed nearly as loud as the insects, the only conceivable human sound the occasional sharp whoop of laughter or a poorly concealed giggle. Each proof of happiness only caused Harry to slump further into his chair and his furrowed brow to deepen.

After the tenth riotous chuckle since everyone had finally seated themselves, Harry hissed, "Isn't this supposed to be a _funeral_? Where the fuck is all the solemnity? Everyone's treating this as a bloody social gathering." Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded glumly to his right, Ginny hummed to his left.

Ron stirred beside her. "Mate, this kind of _is_ a social gathering." At Harry's swift glare he continued, "A _sad_ social gathering! People are just preoccupying themselves… No one likes to think about death, so everyone's _acting_ giddy while trying to forget just how _sad_ they really are. Oliana was bloody brilliant and every person who knew her is going to go home to _bawl_. I just know it!" When he finished, a thin sheen of sweat coated his face, but no one noticed—sweat glistened on _everyone's_ faces beneath the fiery sun.

"Yeah, especially you, Won-Won," George's voice drifted from farther down the row. "I hate to say it, but maybe this is for the best, Hermione. That's the fourth time your husband's mentioned how wonderful Harry's partner was since we got here! One less competitor for Ron's roaming affect—."

"Isn't there supposed to be a preacher at funerals?" Ron interrupted, his face flushed as he strained his neck to see above the coffin. Ginny was nearly the same shade beside him as she watched the casket—stared at it like Oliana would push off the lid and prance out any second.

"Of _course_ there is, Ronald! There's _always_ been a priest at every other funeral," Hermione chided as she craned her neck behind her. "Oh, Ron, stop looking! I see him. He's coming! He's coming!" She spun herself around and faced forward rigidly in her chair.

Harry, who nearly lay flat in his, slowly began to ascend as a hush fell over the crowd. As the priest's footsteps crunched up the aisle, Ginny's watery eyes overfilled and large tears poured down her cheeks. Harry's brow smoothed over, causing sweat to flow into his own eyes. The two of them had been to plenty of funerals, but ever since they buried her brother, every one made her cry—the ones not associated with the war especially. This one especially.

He continued to watch her as the priest droned a generic beginning, and then stared at his hands through hazy eyes as Shacklebolt spoke what Harry had been unable to say himself. When the stinging mist had finally cleared, the Minister sat beside him and the sun stretched long shadows before the congregation.

Harry looked up as the priest spoke his final words and groaned. Before him stood the same priest who'd bowed his head over Dumbledore's casket, over Tonks' and Lupin's, Colin's and Fred's. Creeping down the steps was the same man who'd finalized Fleur's wedding, Hermione's, _Ginny's_.

"_Bloody hell_, is there only one priest in all of Wizarding Britain?" he muttered. Or, at least, he _meant_ to mutter. Ginny's sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs, a few too-loud nervous laughs sounded behind him, and the man's eyes snapped to his from the top of the aisle. The priest paused to stare for a moment before continuing onward as though nothing had ever happened. Harry's cheeks burned as the coffin was lowered into the ground, the day's scorching heat long gone.

* * *

If the party at the funeral hadn't been enough, those who'd attended Oliana's burial now grouped themselves in an extravagant ballroom with teeming tables of food and alcohol. In fact—"Doesn't this look like more people than were at the funeral?" Harry called to Hermione over the loud mix of shouted conversations and music. They stood in a darkened corner as far away from the booming muggle speakers as possible. Harry nursed a bottle of firewhisky while Hermione desperately clutched a vibrating orange juice.

A lithe woman with tight-fitting sapphire robes sauntered by their secluded corner toward a boisterous group of male Aurors. "Like her!" Harry pointed, eyeing her glittering form as she fluttered her eyelashes at the youngest—and least promising—addition to his force, Caleb Wattlebird. "I don't remember ever seeing _her_ before!"

Hermione glared, unconsciously splaying her fingers over her slightly-swollen belly and gripping her orange juice tighter. She leaned toward Harry and shouted in his ear, "That's because you haven't! Ginny says she's one of George's new _friends_. No one knows her name, but she doesn't seem to mind, does she? Hell, the slut doesn't even know who this funeral party is for!" She gulped her orange juice in one swift swig, then glared at the empty glass disdainfully.

Harry just sipped his firewhisky, his shoulders hunched against the tension.

"Do you know where Ginny is?" he asked after Hermione's glossy eyes hadn't cleared.

Her mouth softened, but her wet eyes somehow got even wetter. She didn't look hateful anymore—now her gaze was apologetic. "I have no clue where she is, Harry. Why are you looking for her?"

"I want to leave, but I don't want to hurt George's feelings. I figure if Ginny wants to leave, too, there's not much he can do to stop me!" He downed his firewhisky with a grimace.

"Just go, Harry! I'll cover for—oh, _Merlin_! Here comes George and Ron!"

The brothers stumbled to the antisocial duo with wide drunken grins splitting their faces, both carrying two shot glasses apiece.

"For you!" Ron grunted as he thrust a glass into Harry's waiting palm.

"And you, m'lady!" George slurred, forcefully shoving the glass into Hermione's empty hand, spilling most of it on her black dress in the process. She looked at him reproachfully for a moment before recognition crossed his face. "Oh, right!" He took back the glass and tipped it into his mouth before throwing it to the nearest table and staggering off into the crowd.

After George disappeared, Ron leaned unsteadily toward Hermione bellowing, "It's cos you're still so skinny, Her-mon-ni-nee! As thin as a—NO!" Ron lunged drunkenly toward Harry, shoving the glass into Harry's teeth in his haste. "Don't drink yet! It's for the toast! The toast!"

As they waited for the elusive nonalcoholic beverage, Hermione leaned against the wall behind her with a wide smile on her face—all traces of her previous sour mood gone—Ron snuck their empty glasses to a house elf while Hermione wasn't looking, and Harry sighed, knowing Hermione'd completely forgotten his quest to escape. It was now impossible. He'd have to stay until the end.

George finally arrived ten minutes later with two shot glasses, showing Hermione the contents before she could begin raving. "S'punch! They ran outta or'n juice!"

The four friends formed themselves into a misshapen circle before spouting 'To Oliana!', clinking their glasses together and draining them dry. Only Ron and Harry emerged gasping—George emptied his with a solid smack of his lips, and Hermione a pucker.

"Some new elfin brew! Stronger!" Ron wheezed.

Hermione only laughed, her eyes twinkling. "A great toast, you guys, even with the choking. Oliana doesn't deserve any less."

"She was the best American witch _I_ ever met."

"Ron, she was the _only_ American witch you've ever met!"

"Yeah, well, that doesn't _not_ make her the best, now, does it?"

"Hear, hear!" George had somehow procured another two shot glasses.

"Oh, for the love of—"

Seeing the opening, Harry shouted "Bathroom!" and ran for the nearest door hoping he looked sick enough to be convincing. However, after he emerged in a dark alleyway and closed the door to the impromptu club behind him, he realized George and Ron were probably too drunk to notice, and Hermione was probably too busy babysitting to care.

"Please, Potter, don't sick up in here. There are plenty of other places you can go."

The voice floated from farther down the alley and, though it could barely be heard over the music thumping through the closed door, it still made Harry jump into the air. His hand automatically pulled out his wand, but when he recognized the voice, his body uncoiled and he sauntered toward it as casually as he could. His hand still gripped his wand when he was close enough to see the cause of his scare.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

Draco eyed Harry wearily, not detecting any anger in his voice or a green tinge to his cheeks, before glancing to Harry's wand. Harry just raised his eyebrows.

"If you must know, Potter, I'm waiting for Astoria."

"Where no one can see you?"

"Potter, I don't want some drunken buzzard to walk out that door and attack me because of their ill-conceived assumption I'm going to ambush them or some other ridiculous thing."

Harry looked pointedly at the darkness engulfing them. It was Draco's turn to raise his eyebrows.

His eyes flicked to Harry's barely-visible wand once more before huffing loudly and exclaiming, "Oh, all _right_, Potter! We'll go closer to that horrible racket if it makes you feel _safer_."

"I don't care for the music, honestly," admitted Harry as Draco pushed himself from the wall and walked away from the darkness.

"Don't like to dance, Potter? Then why bother coming at all?" They strode toward the door together.

"For George. He loves to throw parties, especially after funerals. It helps keep him busy—takes his mind off of, well, you know."

They reached a bulky dumpster that made the already small passage even smaller, but they continued on, shoulder to shoulder, neither wanting to step behind—or in front of—the other. "It keeps him from remembering he's missing his other half," Draco surmised. When they past the dumpster and were halfway to the door, Draco finally paused, his confused face dyed a ghastly yellow from the overhead lamps. "Wait. Did you just mention _funerals_ and _parties_ in the same sentence, Potter?"

Harry's eyes crinkled as he smiled and responded, "You keep calling me Potter, Malfoy. Every time you've spoken, there's been Potter in there somewhere, and you only ever do that when you're nervous."

"How do you know that?" Draco gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing, and Harry could almost see him visibly swallowing the word 'Potter'.

"I'm an Auror. It's my job to read and analyze people: their traits, their habits, their hideaways, and everything else. Noticing shifty eyes can solve a case, observing clenched hands and a glare can prevent one from even happening." Draco bristled at Harry's jab, recognizing his words from Harry's office. "What if that's not the reason? What if you're wrong?"

_He's sweating_, thought Harry, _and this light makes him look positively sickly. He's fidgeting like a frightened fox cornered by a wolf. Has Wizarding Britain really been so harsh?_ His thoughts flashed to his days at Hogwarts and the _Prophet's_ shameful lies and outlandish stories revolving around his sanity and integrity—his thoughts flashed to Rita Skeeter and the countless others that were just like her. _Yes, it can. Merlin, he's the new me._

"I'm not, but the only other explanation I can think of is this: you can't believe I'm really here having a somewhat _reasonable_ conversation with you." Narrowed grey eyes widened, and Harry's smile was one of understanding. "I'm _here_, Malfoy, and I didn't approach you to hurt you. There's no need to keep reminding yourself." His grin suddenly turned wicked. "Or others. There's no one here to _hear_ you say my name, so, if something _did _happen, anyone finding out it was me would be a shot in the dark." He gazed at the blackness behind Draco's horror-stricken frame. "In fact, I think you were right back there. I like the dark better. Let's move."

"Now, let's not do anything rash, Potter." Harry had already started forward, and Draco began stumbling backward, gazing at Harry's wand hand. Harry's previously wrapped and mangled wand hand.

"Potter, how long has it been since we last saw one another?" They'd reached the edge of the dumpster and the bulbs glowed dimly behind Harry's dark curls. Draco could only see the silhouette in front of him—he couldn't quite make out Harry's features. The door was hidden from view by Harry's bulky shape.

"Oh, now we're changing the topic, are we?" If Draco strained, he _might've_ heard a smile in Harry's voice, but he couldn't tell. He could have imagined it.

"I'm being serious, Pot—the last time was in your office, wasn't it? The day you got back from St. Mungo's? When was that?"

The dark mass stopped a foot away from Draco's trembling frame and a piece—what Draco guessed to be Harry's head—cocked itself to the side. "Hm. I'd say it was around a month ago." The figure shrugged. "Maybe a week less. Why's it so import—?"

"Ten days less! What saved you from The Dark Lord in the forest, Potter? Answer me!" Draco's wand felt on fire as he dug it into the form in front of him.

"Blimey, Malfoy, what—?" Draco prepared a hex on his tongue when the dark form began writhing—until he heard the laughter bouncing around the small space. "Your mum. Your mum is what saved me from Voldemort. Now it's your turn for answers. _How_ do you know I'm right and _why_ are you doubting my identity?"

Draco lowered his wand and slipped it into his sleeve. "Your hand should have taken months—maybe even _years_—to even come close to healing, and it looks like nothing ever happened! Greyback mauled that Weasel's face at Hogwarts and I've seen him around—his scars may have faded but his face is still mangled beyond repair! You can tell _he _was attacked!" He let his silent question hang in the air and stood with his arms crossed as he waited for the dark mass to explain the anomaly.

The shape morphed until it became Harry's profile and, Draco, by squinting, could tell Harry looked just as confused as he felt. "I don't understand it completely, and neither does St. Mungo's, but I'm glad to be out of there. The head Mediwitch was such a _bitch_." A heavy metallic boom sounded as Harry fell against the dumpster and raised a twitching hand before his nose. "Apparently, I'm a fast healer. You know how I spent a lot of my time at Hogwarts with Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing? Well, they suspect that has something to do with it—according to them, I was 'given so many different healing potions during my most important developmental years that I've become an enigma'." He scoffed, dropped his hand and closed his eyes before Draco realized with a jolt that it had been Harry's wand hand. "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but it's all just speculation and guesswork," Harry continued, his mocking tone from earlier gone. "I don't believe any of it, but there aren't any other theories. Hermione's been researching ever since I was told my 'accelerated healing was abnormal', but she hasn't come up with anything substantial—and I don't think she will. I survived the killing curse _twice_ and there wasn't anything in her books explaining that. Why should they explain this?"

During Harry's monologue, Draco had taken out a pack of cigarettes and chosen one before lighting it with a blinding flash as Harry ended. Draco froze with embarrassment as Harry questioned, "Is that a muggle fag?" He held out the crumpled box in silent response. Harry accepted the peace offering and took the lighter. After a few struggled flicks, the gas lit and a flame shot upwards, illuminating the small space between them easily. The phantom fire shook violently as it made its way to the cigarette dangling from Harry's lips—the flickering flame cast striking, shifting shadows that deepened his frown lines and showed wrinkles Draco hadn't seen before. In the harsh light, Harry looked _old_, and Draco knew without asking that he had looked the same.

"Potter—" Draco began, but Harry had already lit the cigarette and was puffing madly. He tossed the lighter and Draco's seeker reflexes reacted, his hand closing in on the cheap plastic before Draco could even register Harry'd let go of it.

"Let's move farther down," Harry suggested after the burning tip of his cigarette had already begun moving. Draco quickly turned around and began to walk, using the dumpster's surface as a guide and trying not to think of all the germs crawling along its surface to his fingers. When his fingers met air he went on, acutely aware of the smoldering cigarette behind him and the ever-present fact that he couldn't fucking _see_.

"Hold on," a soft voice called, and trembling fingers weakly gripped the back of his robes and pulled. They guided Draco to the dumpster and the music was suddenly muffled—it shielded them from the noise and, he assumed, from sight as well—it was pitch black. The shaky fingers didn't let go as a sigh sounded to his left and smoke billowed around the small, floating red tip of Harry's cigarette. Draco silently waited.

After a minute, Harry noisily inhaled to begin speaking, only to be thwarted by a drowned-out bang as the door opened and loud music poured into the alleyway.

* * *

A/N: T'is continued in the next chapter…because I split it up…because this seemed like a nice place to stop.


End file.
